


When someone shows you

by NineMagicks



Category: Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell
Genre: Airports, Angst, Bad Sandwiches, M/M, Post-Book 2: Wayward Son, Relationship(s), Spoilers for Book 2: Wayward Son, crisps
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-21
Updated: 2019-10-21
Packaged: 2020-12-31 06:54:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,607
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21105656
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NineMagicks/pseuds/NineMagicks
Summary: Following on immediately from the ending of "Wayward Son", Simon and Baz try to have an important conversation in an airport. It's bound to go well. These two are, after all, masters of communication.





	When someone shows you

**Author's Note:**

> This fic contains "Wayward Son" spoilers and has been tagged as such. Quote at the beginning is by Maya Angelou. (This was my first piece of fanfiction and my first piece of writing in a very long time, I hope you like it!)

**BAZ**

“When someone shows you who they are, believe them.”

Snow says it whilst staring at a sorry display of pre-packed sandwiches, just inside the departure lounge. He cannot go even five steps after putting his shoes back on without thinking about food.

We came through security without any issues. The small matter of his wings was taken care of by Bunce, who managed to cast her angel spell despite being a catatonic wreck of nerves and panic.

I'm not sure what's happening at Watford. Not exactly. You could hardly consider the stream of unintelligible babble that poured from her mouth English, or any other known language. But it isn't good. We need to be home. We needed to be home yesterday, but we _were_ rather busy with other things.

That part's my fault. We all know it.

Nobody's really speaking.

The _Normal_ is speaking. He hasn't stopped speaking since we piled into the taxi to come to the airport. He felt the need to share his life story with every Border Patrol agent we passed at security. His lust for life is being thoroughly balanced by both Bunce and Wellbelove, who have hardly spoken all day and are currently staggering about as though they recently escaped a cult. Which they did.

We all did.

Lesson learnt—do not trust a vampire. Especially a vampire who lives in a hotel and plies you with alcohol and ice cream. No good can come of dessert after midnight.

Snow was right about Lamb but I won't say as such. Not right now. He was hardly effusive on the beach, with the waves crashing over his legs, and he's being downright evasive now we're at the airport. He left me with those words and went lurching off in search of carbohydrates. I told him to wait until we got home—there's bound to be a Pret in arrivals—but he wandered off, hands stuffed into pockets.

_When someone shows you..._

Where did he hear that nonsense? Most likely on one of those brainless daytime chat shows he stews in front of. The sort of shows that inspire you to spend more time watching telly and less time—well, doing anything else.

I look around. There's a pain in my stomach, currently unidentified. An echo in my head. Bunce has gone to stand in an endless queue for the ladies', and Agatha is slumped elegantly in a chair by the windows. The Normal's on his feet pointing the way to our gate, but none of us are looking very lively.

When was the last time I looked lively?

Simon's looking over. He's bought something beige that's wrapped in crinkly plastic. For a moment I think he smiles at me, but he's still looking at the sandwich. The sun comes through the glass and illuminates the curls spilling over his forehead. I look away.

My stomach hurts. Everything hurts.

I drained a couple of birds before getting into the taxi so I shouldn't be starving yet. This pain is something else. I frown at everything within my line of sight, half-listening as the Normal begins telling an old lady and her emotional support animal about his childhood. I think it's a dog, inside the pet carrier. I hope it's not going to be on our flight. You can hardly justify putting a crucifix on a dog.

I almost lost my composure in the taxi. Between Bunce's senseless jabbering, Shepard's merry attempts to translate and Agatha's lifeless stare, I could barely stand the thought of ten hours trapped in a flying metal tube. I was close to begging she procure us First Class seats, which would at least reduce the number of bodies around me. (And the leg room would be far superior.)

But I need all remaining composure—and my last shreds of dignity—for now. For here, in this departure lounge.

I can feel it crumbling. Everything inside me. Everything I had. All I ever wanted.

_When someone shows you who they are, believe them._

Simon Snow is breaking up with me.

This. This is the pain in my stomach.

This is the end.

**SIMON**

Ham.

Ham and cheese.

Something that looks like it was once beef. Maybe. Or chicken?

Everything's got meat on it. That's fine.

They look grey.

It's all...it's fine. I can always buy a bag of crisps. Penny gave me a few dollars and told me to treat myself. She looked sad, like she felt sorry for me. Like this was the last nice thing I might have for a while.

Chicken, then. Or beef.

I can bite into it and find out. It's fine.

**BAZ**

Simon doesn't know what I know. Or he does know and chooses not to see it. That would be like him—infuriatingly stubborn, even on a subconscious level.

He can't. _I _can't.

I don't want this.

Simon doesn't see that I've known_ exactly_ who he is for years. Since our first day at Watford, when the Crucible drew us together. Every morning, every struggle, every late night since. He's never stopped showing me who he is and I've never stopped believing it.

I've never stopped believing in _him_. In Simon Snow, the bloody Chosen One.

I didn't stop then, under the burning tree, when he showed me who he was. I didn't give up when every part of me ached to be done. Not then, not now.

This pain inside me_―_it's dread and defeat.

I walk past Bunce as she returns from the ladies'. She looks as though the world is ending and I suppose it must be. She asks me what's wrong and I sneer.

It hurts less, sometimes, to be hurtful.

**SIMON**

Baz has gone storming off through the terminal. He looks like heartbreak in a ripped floral shirt.

Good. That's good. I mean...

It's killing me, but only on the inside. On the outside I'm fine. Look at me_―_I'm_ fine_.

This sandwich tastes like cardboard. It's going straight in the bin once I get round this old lady and her dog.

Agatha's awake. Shepard's calling me. I can't see Penny...maybe she's crying in the toilets. That's what I feel like doing. She magicked my wings off and I'm telling myself it's for the best. I can be like this, now. Sort out the mess at home, then start being normal. A Normal life, like everyone else in this terminal. It won't be so bad.

I feel nothing when I think.

I feel fine.

**BAZ**

Bunce has relocated us to the departure gate. A ghost of her officious self has surfaced as she manages Wellbelove and keeps tabs on Simon, who's drifting around the gate area, dragging his fingers along walls. We won't board for another twenty minutes. She sends him off to the shop with the last of our dollars.

He hasn't found the shop yet. He's standing by the long row of windows, staring at an unnecessarily large plane. It's one of those ridiculous new ones with four engines and entire cities inside. (It_ has_ to be an American airline.) (I crane my neck and glimpse the livery—ah, yes. United. Of course.)

He shuffles away. I watch the back of his head. All of me is aching. I stare at the dust on my shoes, at these last bits of America, coming home with me.

Snow emerges from the duty-free shop with an absurdly large packet of crisps and a family-sized bag of sour sweets. If he thinks he's chewing those into my ear for ten hours...

He's not going to sit by me. I let that sink in. He'll sit between Bunce and Wellbelove, alternating between panic and panicked silence.

Simon Snow wants me to leave him alone.

Crowley, I need a drink.

**SIMON**

Baz is standing by a bin near the windows, looking at nothing. I'd offer him a sweet but he'd say no. He's pale. He's thinking about what I said, probably. Thinking what a tosser I am.

Well, he's free now. He didn't need to come here to see us off. Maybe there's a flight to Vegas leaving from one of these other gates_―_he can be back with the vampires before teatime.

Back with the vampires. Back with Lamb.

I mean...

Fuck it.

**BAZ**

Snow comes marching over chin-first, as if my very existence is now an affront. There are curls in his eyes and crumbs on his t-shirt. He's all butter, blood and popcorn, and I can't stand it.

“What are you still doing here?”

I can't look at him. I can't bear to hear any more of his words. It hurts. My entire body stings.

“Why are you here, Baz?”

My eyes find his. Blue. Bluer than the sea he'd sat by. Bluer than the waves that washed over him. Moles and mouth and skin that's caught the sun, in a week we spent adrift.

The pain is ebbing, now. I can feel less. I feel nothing.

I'll talk to fill the hole that's forming.

“I know who you are, Simon Snow.”

He flinches but doesn't drop his chin. _Challenge accepted._

“I've known every time. Every day and each long night. Every brave thing you've done, every stupid thing we've said. Every thought and hope and whisper. I knew, Snow, and I know it now―there's magic in you, even when you don't see it. You pulled me from the flames without thought for what I'd done, for how I'd hurt you. Betrayed you. Trusted Lamb, Snow, when I only needed to trust _you_.”

If my heart could race it would be racing. I can't tear my face away. I can't stop the words.

“Without thought, Snow. Selflessly. _That's_ who you are."

_You show me._

“Every time I need to see it, you show me who you are.”

_I see you, Simon Snow. I always have._

“I won't try to change your mind, but I'm not staying here without you. I'm going with you to Watford and we'll face what's waiting together. That's how we_ do_ things, Simon.”

I turn my head away. I can still see him, reflected in the glass. He's covered in crumbs. Approximately half of the packet of crisps is gracing his person. I reach out automatically, even though he'll either knock my hand away or step to one side.

He doesn't move. He lets me brush the crumbs off. He's looking at me.

I swallow. It's not showy, like his—it probably doesn't make him want to bite me. He's looking at me like he doesn't know what he's seeing. _When you show someone..._

He's seen me. Since arriving here, this past year, when we were young_―_I've shown him everything and he's believed what he's seen. I'm nothing he needs to be happy.

He opens his mouth. I wait for him to say it. Those final, terrible words.

“You called me Simon,” he mumbles.

His reflection isn't enough. I look at him. He's tragic, all curls and crumbs and creases.

_I love tragic._

**SIMON**

Baz walks past me and stands close to the glass. He's looking at the massive plane I was watching earlier. Its engines are starting—I can see them turning through his reflection.

Things are clearer now. Maybe the crisps helped.

He knocked the crumbs off me. Because I disgust him or because he cares? Both, maybe. But I know he cares. He must, because he's coming back with us. He _wants_ to come back.

He wants to sit next to me for ten hours with his legs all folded up while a small child reclines their seat on his knees. His nose will be runny and I'll get impatient waiting for the flight attendant to bring our meals. And I'll think about holding his hand.

He sees me. I'll think about that, too. He saw everything I showed and he believes it. It's not what I'd thought he'd see.

He's still here. I mean...

I didn't think he'd still _be_ here.

**BAZ**

Snow comes stomping over like a clumsy elephant, tripping over bags and vagrant toddlers. I can hear him breathing through his mouth. He's probably working himself into a strop over what I said. If he wants to argue I'll have to be the one to stumble off. I won't know what to say.

I meant it. What I said...I meant all of it.

Crowley, I think I could cry. (Snow's seen it before. He'll cope.)

“Baz...”

I won't cry. I'll look at him once, then I'll leave him alone. He can sit next to the Normal on the flight and compare notes about Iowa.

You can't see his wings but the air near my ankles is disturbed. His tail must be flicking, punctuating the mood.

“Simon,” I say. Then I know what to say. “I love you.”

It's done. I'm empty now. He has all of me to hate.

The pain in my stomach is gone.

**SIMON**

He just...

I mean. It's just, I thought...

_Baz._

** BAZ **

That aeroplane is too big. How can a machine that size fly? I can't stop looking at it. Next to me, Simon hasn't reacted. Bunce calls from across several rows of uncomfortable chairs—we're boarding in five minutes. We're right at the back of the plane again, so that gives us more time.

Simon clears his throat. I expect a growl to follow at any moment.

But he takes my hand instead.

** SIMON **

If I lean into him like this, maybe he'll let me rest my head on him. Like this.

Someone's probably staring at us, but I won't think about that. The massive plane is pulling back from the gate. We can stay here and watch it go.

“Baz,” I say. I'll move my head. Like this.

**BAZ**

Simon Snow kisses me softly, like we're both barely there.

It's doesn't feel like the end of the world. It feels like a beginning.

When it ends he's still holding my hand. I squeeze his fingers—there's salt under his nails. He still smells faintly like the sea.

We'll be holding hands when all of this is over. When we've faced the Coven and thwarted whatever nonsense is happening at Watford. When we're home and he's safe in his flat. (But not necessarily back on the sofa.) (We're getting off the sofa together, Simon Snow. Metaphorically and physically.) (Maybe _sometimes_ we can still physically be on the sofa.)

He squeezes my hand. He gives it all back to me.

“Love you, too.”

It's more of a blurt than a heartfelt confession, but it's perfect. It's a beginning. I close my eyes and let everything sink in, deep and then deeper, to fill the nothing that had formed.

Simon is red and blustering and lovely. What blood is left in me touches my cheeks. His kiss is still on my lips, lingering. He tastes like ready salted crisps and stale bread and, Crowley.

It's perfect.

** SIMON **

We're watching the stupidly big plane roll to the runway. I think Baz is trying not to smile.

Penny's shouting at us—it's time to board.

I've still got some sweets left but maybe I should've got another bag. It's a long flight.

I'm still holding Baz's hand_―_I won't let him go. I might kiss him again on the plane, when everyone's sleeping. And we can talk. His lips are chapped but he's already looking a bit better, one step closer to rain and Heathrow and proper cups of tea.

_There's magic in you_, he said, and I feel it.

He shows me who I am and I believe him.


End file.
